


ice is also great and would suffice (except when it doesn’t, not at all)

by cuethe_pulse



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Angst, Book: New Moon, F/M, Female Solo, Ice play (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuethe_pulse/pseuds/cuethe_pulse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She spends all her time pretending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ice is also great and would suffice (except when it doesn’t, not at all)

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during New Moon; written for a friend who asked for Belward angst forever ago.

She tastes him in the ice chips. 

Her cup of soda has gone empty, the block of collected ice all that remains. Across the table, Jessica ignores her, still sore and confused by their night at the movies, while she chatters to Angela. She can’t follow the conversation; they’re speaking in a language Bella no longer understands, the language of those with a heart that’s whole. 

When she tilts the cup toward her mouth and the ice falls onto her tongue, the sharp memory of his kiss hurts her. She doesn’t realize she’s gasped until she sees the way they look at her—Angela, concerned, Jessica, only further irritated. 

“Sorry,” her voice feels dusty, rarely used. “I—had a chill.” 

“Well, _anyway_ ,” Jessica’s voice is a thorny sigh, exasperated, “like I was saying…” 

Bella doesn’t try to listen. She’s useless now, she knows that. All she can think of is how real that one second felt. It isn’t real, of course; it’s a lie her mind tells her, just like his stern expression materializing out of darkness. But the lie is comforting, so she’ll take it. 

\-- 

She spends all her time pretending. She pretends to be challenged by schoolwork while she reads the same page of Shakespeare until she sees the words in her sleep. She pretends she wants to watch television with Charlie and is grateful when he doesn’t talk much. She pretends Alice receives her e-mails, reads them to Edward sometimes, maybe makes him miss her. She pretends she’s done screaming at night when all she does is press her open mouth into her pillow. 

She fills a small glass with ice cubes from the freezer, brings it up to her room, and she pretends to kiss him. 

The smooth slide over her lips is his controlled press. Phantom hands hold her still, hold himself back. The tingling feeling she gets in the small of her back is similar, close to that thrill of thinking those moments his mouth went firm and unyielding were moments of restraint.

Now, of course, she can’t be sure. Everything has been woven with doubt since the day he left her in the woods. The reminder makes her falter and the cube slips from between her fingers and melts into a wet spot on her floor. 

She tries again. This time she takes the ice into her mouth and she trembles, recalling blissful summer afternoons. Edward, more careless or more confident, would kiss more fully. Seconds stretched by lazily as she breathed through her nose and welcomed him in, never pulling away first, never chasing after more than he offered. His tongue was winter on the seam between her lips, the roof of her mouth, her teeth, while the sun heated her face and kept sweat gathering under her knees. 

When the cup is empty, she’s alone in the meadow of her memories again. 

\-- 

She waits until Charlie works late one night to go further than those memories. 

She sits on her bed with her hands submerged in a bowl of ice. She wonders if she is a masochist. This can’t be healthy, and it can’t help, but she can’t stop. She fought her way into his life and he utterly consumed hers then tried to disappear. Only he can’t. He’s there all the time, in every nook and cranny and corner and right in front of her face. He’s in the corner of her eye and in her ear and in the turn of her stomach. 

And now he’s in her numb fingers, creeping beneath her shirt. The cold is startling and she both squirms away and arches up. He touched her, a little, when he held her at night. Her hipbones and her spine. Here, if she closes her eyes, they’re _his_ frozen hands curving around her breasts. She struggles not to remember anything. Maybe, she thinks, maybe if she creates this, if it’s all fantasy, it won’t hurt as much to never have it. 

She inhales, sharp and shaky, when she feels between her legs. In her fantasy, he’s perfect at this. As perfect as he is in reality. He’s sure and searching, and finds every place that makes her muscles go tight and her skin flush red, just the way he likes. He gazes at her, golden and intense, and he says that he loves her, he’ll always love her, he’ll never stop loving her, he’ll never leave her— 

“Edward,” she whispers his name like he can hear it, like it will bring him back. “Edward,” like it will wake her and he’ll be there, asking about her nightmare. “ _Edward_.” 

And then her whisper becomes a whimper and the roll of her hips stops because her thighs have warmed her hands and the magic is gone and so is he. She dips her fingers back in the ice bowl and feels like a fool. 

She understands, so completely, how he could not want her. That knowledge has her screaming through the night once more, beyond all point of pretending.


End file.
